


The Utility of Lies

by Elana



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dark, Dirty Talk, F/M, Rough Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elana/pseuds/Elana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>References to endgame & character spoilers. Please do not read until you have finished the main storyline as well as Blackwall's character arc.</p><p>A study of Lavellan & Blackwall, after all the hard truths have come forward. A relationship that transforms, distorts, and struggles may prove to be the strongest of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Utility of Lies

Mindlessly, Lavellan tossed her helmet into a corner of the barn and pulled the fasteners apart on her robes. She heard the jingling of Blackwall’s chestpiece straps as he, too, divested himself of his heavy armour. They didn’t need to speak. They were returned from battle. They were alive. It was time to fuck.

Her tits were bare but her breeches still on when he spun her, closing his mouth over hers. It was not worth scolding him for his impatience. She didn’t much desire to talk. The hot panting of his desire filled her head. This close, the scent of him was overwhelming. His beard stifled, seemed to deprive her of breath. She craved that sensation. 

_So what_ do _we talk about?_ She heard Varric’s words suddenly in her head. She far preferred the growl of Blackwall’s kiss than the answer he gave the dwarf. Jousting? Really? Who gives a fuck about jousting? 

The discovery, and subsequent judgment, of Thom Rainier had started a cascade of recontextualizing every conversation the two of them ever had. His mysterious reticence, once attributed to being part of a secretive order, was castrated and transformed into a liar’s cautious conservatism. He had been so _sexy_ as a Grey Warden. She used to touch herself, thinking about him filling her with his Darkspawn taint. What was he now? 

A sports fan? 

She crushed away her _ugh_ of disappointment with an impassioned thrust of her tongue into his mouth. His bare chest, scarred and hardened, felt fantastic against the points of her nipples, chilled by the air in the barn’s upper storey. His hands, huge and callused from sword and shield, mauled her ass through the thin material of her breeches. He half-lifted her with one arm, used his other palm to slide the cloth down one hip. The heat between her legs was the same hot damp as Flashfire cast through the Fallow Mire. 

Through a gap in the barn wall slats, she saw Dorian pause on the landing up the steps to the keep. His elegant Tevinter poise, his cool irony, stood out like a beacon of civilized urbanity against the earnest roughness of Skyhold and its people. He seemed to look in her direction. Her heart skipped a beat. 

She was suddenly shoved backwards, the wind knocked from her as she fell, impacting against a stiff bale of hay. Blackwall stared stonily over her, eyes glazed with regret and desire and a confused adulation that she often noticed there. His dick, already in his hand, was hard as a sword pommel, glistening near-metallic with anticipation. 

He could grasp both of her knees in one broad hand, clasped from underneath. Thus, he held her legs up, thighs together, tugging her pants away just enough to bare her cunt. The hot head of his cock slid up and down, marrying their counterpart wetness to press through the resistance of her pussy. Not long ago, her elfin proportions screamed against the scale of his human intrusion. These days, she accepted him readily. 

She accepted him so readily, that day on the throne, when he came to her in chains. She thought she loved him. She was a slave to forgiveness. 

“Nnnh,” he grunted, his cockhead slipping into her, spearing inch by inch into her guts. Good. Good. He would say no more words, only sounds. She would be driven stupid by his thrusts, and would not be able to comprehend any if he tried. 

“Fucking nomadic whore,” she heard him say, just at the moment his dick slid home and her back arched involuntarily with a soft cry of ecstasy. “You couldn’t wait to get my cock in you, could you, you dirty halla bitch.” 

She could not respond, not mixed up like this, stars in her eyes and thoughts being pushed out of her brain each time he sawed through her. Dimly, she felt herself juice with each word of derogatory filth. 

“Not so perfect now, are you.” His dark hair pressed against her cheek, his words hissing like steam against her ear. “Look at you, the Herald of Andraste, squirming on the cock of a fucking convict.” 

He caught himself and grunted, holding stiff and still a moment. She could tell he had nearly come. 

Once he mastered himself, he locked eyes with her and reached a hand to clasp around her throat. It didn’t seem he was looking at her, though. Not truly. He was looking deep into his own darkness. He was using her body to hate-fuck himself. 

It would have been abominable, if it didn’t feel so fucking fantastic. 

His iron-veined cock raged and thudded against her deepest parts. Her eyes rolled back. His fingers tightened around her neck. Her breaths, short and shallow, became still more constricted. She was close. 

But he didn’t let her have it. The bulk of his arm wrapped around her waist, pulled her against him and spun them both so he was now on his back in the hay. Their tight fit did not disengage even through this manoeuvre. Now on top, her thighs splayed to either side, her knees chafed against the rope-burn of hay. She ground down on him. 

She could see through the slats once more, into Skyhold’s main courtyard. Dorian was gone, but she could still picture him: the delectable masculinity of the hollow of his throat, the twin pillows of his bottom lip. She began to slide herself up and down on Blackwall’s cock. 

Dorian’s dear, dear, knowing smirk. The racing heat in her body whenever they would flirt in the rotunda. The way he once said, “In another lifetime, maybe.” 

Her climb was so smooth, so slick. She felt Blackwall’s rough hands on her hips, guiding her toward quicker thrusts. She bit down on her lower lip, imagining Dorian’s. She gritted her teeth, hoping to obscure the consonants of any unbidden cry into something that sounded more like “Thom Rainier”. 

Blackwall’s identity had always been a tool. Could he serve as her Dorian? 

Her body screamed _YES_ as she collapsed into shudders, twitching and spasming against Blackwall’s chest. She felt hot ropes of come burst inside of her belly, heard the gruff groans of his own pleasure matching hers. His hand was on the back of her neck, but did not squeeze. Instead his fingers twined in her dark hair. They lay there, clasped together, the spectres of their breath shivering together through the thin mountain air. 

She could never have Dorian, must never try, must never let on. He was her dearest friend. These thoughts were forbidden on the highest order. 

Lost in herself, it took long moments for Lavellan to register the gentle touch stroking her hair. She looked up, craning her neck to be able to see Blackwall’s face without lifting her cheek from his chest. 

He regarded her with that mixed adulation. It was love in his eyes, undeniable. Its hopeful glint was shadowed by his ever-present shame — made sharper, perhaps, after the brutality of their coitus. 

“My lady,” he said, in a way that could as much have been _I love you._

Her lips twisted in a smile before she looked away, pressing her face back to the hard lines of his pectorals. 

Blackwall would do anything for her. 

He would _be_ anyone. 

The Inquisitor stood for justice and order, but the Dalish knew that such is all lies. The world was full of darkness and horrible ambiguities. Its people, too. Lavellan herself was no exception. 

Maybe what she needed was someone who dwelled in that darkness with her: a recourse where they could be their honest, loathsome selves. The Inquisition all began as a falsehood, a laughable ruse. They propped her up as an exotic prophetess, an otherworldly pointy-eared saviour. They spun her ill-fated suffering into miracles. They defiled the last intact bastion of her people’s ancient religion of the true gods, to save this sorry continent of Exalted March genocides and the deadly fripperies of the Game. And damn it all, she still strove to make some good of it. No amount of Dalish xenophobia could keep her from saving the world. 

Rainier, too. His world was fucked, and he, too, assumed a mask. They both strove to live through the lies, to make something noble of a pitiable mess. 

He tamed the stalwart might of his arms to encircle her in a tender squeeze. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. 

She slid her palm down the sinewy length of his forearm, twined her fingers in his. 

Perhaps this was exactly right. Perhaps this nest of lies could hatch a singular, glimmering truth. 

Perhaps Thom Rainier was exactly right for her.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is my response to a bit of party banter between Blackwall and Varric.  
> "So what do we talk about?" Varric asks.  
> "I don't suppose you follow jousting," Blackwall replies.  
> For my part, I was astounded by how bored I was by a character I thought I loved.
> 
> Blackwall's arc is very interesting, especially the way it challenges the player to forgive him after so much inexcusable behaviour. But once committed, I found myself questioning his worthiness. Who was he, really? The mysterious veneer was cast aside, and it seemed like he was just an empty husk with little personality of his own. Who followed jousting. BO-RING. I was disappointed, mostly in myself. And thus I came to terms with the fact that I was actually in love with Dorian, one of the few characters a female elf could not romance at all.
> 
> This quick little story is how I dealt with those thoughts, and came to the conclusion that the story of my Inquisitor is actually kind of compelling — at least, to me.


End file.
